Life is Not a Four-Color Process
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
Summary: Sheldon reacts to the death of Stan Lee.


Life is Not a Four-Color Process  
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring

Amy found her husband sitting on the bed, dozens of comic books scattered in uncharacteristic disarray around him: not in alphabetical order, not organized by series or sequence. The only evidence that they belonged to him at all was that they remained neatly packed in what she had been assured was proper storage materials: packed in sealed plastic bags, each with a slim sheet of cardboard backing. Sheldon was sagging where he sat, slender shoulders drooping – also uncharacteristic. His words were soft. "He's dead, Amy."

Amy had no idea who Sheldon was talking about. She wondered momentarily if the person in question was even real, by the standards of consensus reality, but given her husband's obvious sorrow she didn't think it appropriate to ask. What she did say was, "Who's dead, Sheldon?"

He was momentarily scandalized. "How can you not _know_?" Indignant.

"Sheldon," she said patiently, "I've been working in the lab all day. I haven't heard any news."

"Oh." An unusually mild return. His eyes turned to the comic books around him, his hands instinctively moving to arrange them in stacks. "Stan Lee, Amy. Stan Lee is dead."

One could not live with Sheldon without knowing who Stan Lee was – or now, _had been_. Amy noticed now that the comics all bore various imprints indicating they had been produced by the Marvel company. Lee's company. "Stan Lee. The comics creator."

He looked for a moment as if he wanted to correct her description. She would almost have welcomed that, as it would have been more like the husband she knew. But his mouth opened slightly, only to close again. He simply nodded.

"Oh, Sheldon, I'm sorry. I know he was important to you." While she had never really understood why a man who invented and published spandex-clad heroes mattered so much to her physicist spouse, she accepted that it was so.

"I was at his house, Amy." That much was true, though from what she knew of the encounter it wasn't one most people would have recalled with pleasure. "He invited me and Penny to come in and watch the Lakers game with him." Not how Penny had described the incident. "That's how I got his autograph."

On a restraining order. But Amy only said, "I know."

"It's not fair, Amy." His gesture took in the comic books around him. He picked up a single issue. "He created Professor X." Indicating an illustration of an intense-looking bald man. "Professor X died, but he came back." Another issue, this one prominently displaying a tough-looking middle-aged man with an eyepatch. "He created Nick Fury. Nick Fury died, but he came back." A third, with Sheldon pointing out a pretty redhead ensconced in what looked like a flaming bird. "He created Jean Grey. Jean Grey died, but she came back. A lot. But Stan Lee –"

"Oh, Sheldon." Carefully sliding some comics aside to give herself room, she sat down on the bed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Sheldon. Stan Lee can't come back."

"I _know_ that, Amy. I'd rather see him come back, than Professor X or Nick Fury or Jean Grey." He did not relax into the embrace. "But I know that – that doesn't happen in real life." His gaze focused on the tips of his sneakers.

"Pap-pap didn't come back." Sheldon's grandfather, the first (only?) relative to encourage his interest in science. "Even when I asked Santa. My father didn't come back either.

"Professor Proton didn't come back. Except as an imaginary construct of my psyche." Amy decided she would wait until later to ask about that. "Mrs. Wolowitz didn't come back, even if Howard's daughter sounds a lot like her. Leonard Nimoy didn't come back. His character did, but he didn't. Stephen Hawking didn't come back."

"No," she acknowledged. "But Sheldon–"

"Stan Lee made a whole universe, but now he's gone, and he won't come back." He looked up now, but into the distance. Were his eyes glittering? "Someday Meemaw won't come back. Someday Leonard won't come back. Or you."

"Oh, Sheldon." She leaned on him, then, holding on, letting her head come to rest over the strong beat of his heart. "I know, I know. But we're here now, Sheldon. We're here now. _I'm_ here now."

"I know. I—" He stumbled over the words. "I'm glad, Amy." And then he was holding her. "I'm glad you're here. Please don't go away any time soon."

"I'll try not to." There was a lump in her throat. "You either, you hear me?"

"Of course I hear you," he said tenderly. "You're right here in front of me." His cheek came to rest on her lank brown hair, and she felt a drop of moisture that indicated his eyes were, indeed, wet. "And I'll try not to, either."

"You'd better." And they held each other for a long, long time.

END


End file.
